


his

by ollie_outie



Series: gamzee week 2019 [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Gamz makes some pie and feels good about himself for once, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:05:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollie_outie/pseuds/ollie_outie
Summary: gamzee week day two- control.





	his

Feels almost strange to lift frond and know it's path, to be able to tell at your body _stop_ or _go_ and have it listen. Trembles still wreck you, still move up and down your husk, sometimes claim your hands til they’re almost like to vibrate, seeming like they should motherfucking hum with they way they're moving, and that's strange too, separate from sopor lethargy, from sober angry twitches and fists, from spiderweb blue thickness in your pan that left you unknowing, unfeeling, uncompre-fucking-hending of the things your body all got to doing most times.  
You are your own again, no leash passed off to unkind hands, left to your own devices and designs, much as you feel that ain't among the brightest of ideas at times.  
For now though, what you're doing with this freedom is basically shit all. Most active you've been, to your own reckoning, is thinking on making something using a recipe you stole from one of those hornless motherfuckers books, words in it printed all strange and curled so you had to find a brother kind enough to all translate and transcribe when the glossy pictures printed alongside wouldn't do.  
Wasn't any more sopor for baking up now, and your hands missed the work of making pies, fruit seemed like a fine enough alternative.  
So, you set yourself to it, cutting butter into flour while you let the berries earlier bought get their settle on, humming something tuneless and soft. There's a nice almost-familiar feel to the dough all working itself out ‘tween your fronds, Earth-C ingredients far enough from Alternian to make it strange, but still plenty close that the feel is about the same, letting you know it's time to let the motherfucker rest, settling it in the thermal hull til you'll need it. Next is the filling, simple and sweet to put together. A fuck ton of sugar is added to the berry bowl, a shitbit of cinnamon and lemon juice mostly for the smell, and some corn slurry, _holy motherfuck you are still not over that_ that _is what humans call it, for motherfucking real? They couldn't just say “cornstarch and water,” instead of fucking slurry._  
You stir maybe a mite too vigorous still thinking on that, splatter and spill some of the filling, but figure that's motherfucking fine, mix-mashed together like this the berries make a real pretty reddish-purple, all like the colors decided to get a bit hate-friendly towards each other and got all tangled up on the way.  
Filling and crust all finished, you got some pride brewing up in your pusher, feels good to do something on your own time and whim again. Your nutrition block is all a goddamn wreck now though, and motherfuck you had no idea just throwing together a quick pie could be this messy, pretty sure you can spot a bit of _something_ all splattered on the ceiling, how in the motherfuck it got there is a wonder to you.  
Tidying up is a nice bit of monotony, thoughtless work to wipe down counters and get at scrubbing out stains from earlier, much as you think the little blotches of berry juice are near the prettiest thing to grace this block. Takes a bit til you're satisfied, wiping and scrubbing and sweeping a bit cuz you spilt some flour on the floor and that shit feels nasty as all fuck on your walkstubs, and it'd be a bitch to clean later if you tracked it all through the rest of the hive. But eventually, you have yourself a cleanish block, and your dough has been chilling long enough you can all roll it out, throwing down some flour and rolling the dough to a circle ‘bout big enough you're sure it'll fit into the pie tin fine, might be even enough left over for you to be able to all beautify it too, give it a lattice top crust.  
You get that motherfucker all nice and loaded up in its tin, pour your filling in and only spill a little bit, roll out some of the extra dough and cut it into lines nice and neat, laying and weaving them over top and using your frondnubs to push together some of the hanging bits into a pretty waving pattern before throwing the whole motherfucking thing into the oven. Now you only got like, half an hour or some such til the pie is ready. You ain't completely sure, time ain't ever made itself sensible to you, and it sure as fuck isn't about to start, but that feels right.  
You get to cleaning the block again, more wiping and sweeping and scrubbing, easier than it would've been from your tidying earlier, washing out the bowls from the dough and filling now you finished up with them. Can just about smell the pie getting done when you're all finished up, crust smelling all buttery good and the berries giving a nice tang, little note of cinnamon sneaking through and adding some spice.  
You get hit with a motherfucking wave of heat from the oven pulling the pie out, sending some prickles down your husk. It's bubbling and bursting some juice out and tinting the top crust purple-pink. Where it ain't stained the crust is a golden brown, looking soft and flaky and motherfucking perfect. You set the motherfucker on a counter to get its cool on, walking off to probably forget about it til you come searching the block near midday for something to munch, but for now feeling some accomplishment at finishing what you set out to.


End file.
